Uphill Battle Longer and steeper than the Tour de France's L'Alpe d'Huez (and don't forget the wind, the sleet and the fog), a race up Mount Washington takes exhausted cyclists above the clouds

"It is easier to go down a hill than up, but the view is from the top."--ARNOLD BENNETT, English novelist and playwright

The scene at the mountaintop observatory is surreal, like some B-grade Hollywood horror flick. One by one, dozens of Lycra-clad cyclists, shivering in fleece blankets, click-clack in their cleated shoes across a concrete floor to escape an impenetrable fog and biting, horizontal rains outside. They look gaunt and delirious, with wicked smiles revealing one supremely satisfying truth: They have conquered a brutal, unyielding stretch of in-cline in northern New Hampshire called the Mount Washington Auto Road.

"It's a wall," says Drew Miller, 36, of Flagstaff, Ariz., a member of the Trek VW team. "Right from the gun, the road disappears into the trees. You get going, and--Bam!--it's right in your face, and it never really relents."

These days, it seems, it's the downhill bikers who get the glory--adrenaline junkies adorned in body armor and bawdy tattoos atop full suspension rigs that resemble motorcycles more than bicycles. Their races are lightning-quick, made-for-television bursts of power that hurtle them down hillsides at speeds reaching 50 mph. But others know that the real badge of human grit is earned in the climb. Judging from the number of hill-climb events, such as the Everest Challenge in California and Mount Evans in Colorado, these nasty tests of endurance, character and sustained suffering are, well, the sport's up-and-coming events.

The classic of the genre is the Mount Washington race, up a 6,300-foot granite knob. Even Miller, who has won Colorado's Iron Horse Classic and finished second at the 14,200-foot Mount Evans on three occasions, says he underestimated the ornery nature of the Northeast's tallest peak. The Auto Road, first built in the mid-1800s, features 72 turns and an average grade of 12%, including an ungodly 22% stretch over the final 50 yards, while rising almost 5,000 feet in 7.6 miles (steeper and longer than the L'Alpe d'Huez of Tour de France infamy). Unlike at Mount Evans, the New Hampshire race offers no run-up, no time to get acclimated to the effort. From the start the paved road ascends to the peak, eventually disintegrating to a patchy dirt and gravel path scarred by rivulets formed by runoff. And every August, 600 hardy cyclists come to take their measure of the mountain.

"The only way to go is up, but the only way to go up is to put yourself into this extra level of suffering," says two-time winner Tim Johnson of Middleton, Mass. "You can't coast, you can't relax, and you can't do anything but go super, super hard. And maybe that is an attraction, because you learn new limits for yourself."

It could be worse. According to a plaque outside the observatory, the size of the Granite State's Presidential Range once rivaled that of the Alps. Today, Mount Washington, at 6,288 feet, stands as a testament to the corrosive power of the winds and rains that swirl and occasionally rage through this unpredictable pocket of the White Mountains. It was here, on April 12, 1934, that the highest on-land wind speed--231 mph--was recorded. The first bike climb was held in 1973. Once, in 1986, the race was called at the halfway mark because of icy winds, and in 1993 and 1994 the race was cancelled because of nasty weather, prompting organizers to move the event from September to August in 1995.

Conditions can still be a challenge, however. "Although at last year's race when the riders got to the five-mile mark and they were hitting 50-to 60-mph winds, fog and drizzle, we thought about calling the race," says race organizer Mary Power. "But we didn't know that when they headed out."

That's Mount Washington. The weather often changes in a heartbeat. Temperatures have been known to swing from the high 80s and sunshine at the base to subfreezing and hailstorms above the treeline at 5,000 feet. "You have to be prepared for anything," says Emily Thorne of Wenham, Mass., a former professional cyclist who completed the climb in 1999 and hasn't been back for an encore.

If the weather doesn't get you, a lack of willpower can. The unyielding climb first attacks your legs, then your resolve. After 30 minutes your mind can wander into dangerous places. And you dare not submit to daydreaming, since the roadside has many precipitous dropoffs and precious few guardrails.

Dale Stetina's 1980 record of 57 minutes, 41 seconds stood until Tyler Hamilton of Marblehead, Mass., fresh off his debut ride in the Tour de France, shattered the mark with a time of 51:56 in 1997. Two years later, under near-ideal conditions, Hamilton soloed his way to a new mark of 50:21. "This is by far the toughest climb I've done, and I've done a lot of tough climbs," said Hamilton (who on Saturday withdrew from that other bike race over in France because of a back injury) after climbing off his saddle in 1999.

For the next two years the race belonged to Johnson, who saw Mount Washington as a symbolic obstacle, a hurdle he had to clear during his transition from amateur racer to professional. "On the pain scale, it's definitely up there, a 9.5 or 10," says the Saunier Duval racer. "But the switch back to happiness is equally as dramatic. Once you get to the top, in a second, everything is O.K."

Johnson's reign atop Mount Washington came to an end in 2002, when a tall, skinny kid with a scrappy streak ventured north. Thomas Danielson, a Connecticut Yankee who spent two years honing his two-wheeled chops at Fort Lewis College in Durango, Colo., took advantage of flawless conditions to shave almost a minute off Hamilton's mark. "It's one of those climbs that's so difficult it makes your head hurt," says Danielson. "I'd never seen it before, and I think that helped." Last year, buffeted by gale-force winds, Danielson won again, but almost a minute and a half behind his 2002 mark.

"The second time, I remember thinking that I was just going to float up that climb," he says. "Then you get started, and it's like someone hitting you with a big hammer. Regardless of whether you're having a good day or a bad day, it's painful."

Both Hamilton (5'8", 130 pounds) and Danielson (5'10", 135) have the power-to-weight ratio that allows top-flight climbers to seemingly soar up mountainsides. "That climb was made for Tom Danielson," says his coach, Rick Crawford. "The steeper it goes, the better his power-to-weight ratio gets. He's a wisp of a man. You're talking about a very small car with a very large motor. That's what makes guys like Tom and Tyler go uphill so well."

If Hamilton represents the perfect rider to attack Mount Washington's grades, his father, Bill, represents the "everyman" aspect of the race. "Tyler and his brother, Geoff, they race up Mount Washington. I struggle up," says the elder Hamilton, 64. "I don't do it fast, and I don't do it pretty, but I do get to the top of the mountain."

Fewer than a quarter of the 600 riders have realistic hopes of achieving the honor of a Top Notch time (1 hour, 20 minutes or less), much less winning. Still, there's no shortage of strivers--the race field filled within a month of the opening of registration on Feb. 1, says Power. Since bicycles are permitted on the road only twice a year (there's a two-hour "practice" ride mid-July), there is a forbidden-fruit attraction. But for most, it's simply the chance to tackle the road's near-vertical grades.

At this year's race, on Aug. 21, Danielson, Hamilton and Johnson won't be there, due to other obligations. But the women's-record holder, Genevieve Jeanson of Quebec, is expected. She first broke the women's record in 1999 at age 17, winning an Audi before she had her driver's license. Could she win overall honors this year? Two years ago she set a new women's mark, at 54:02, finishing third overall, and last year she was third again. "I'm small and I'm thin," she says with a thick Quebecois accent, a smile and a slight shrug.

And, clearly, willing to suffer.

TWO COLOR PHOTOS: PHOTOGRAPHS BY JONATHAN S. MCELVERY CLIMB TIME From the start (inset) the 600 upwardly mobile cyclists are confronted by a course that rises nearly 5,000 feet in 7.6 miles.COLOR PHOTO: PHOTOGRAPHS BY JONATHAN S. MCELVERY MAKING THE GRADE There are no sprint finishes, as the final 50 yards of the race tilts to a thigh-busting 22% incline.COLOR PHOTO: PHOTOGRAPHS BY JONATHAN S. MCELVERY SPOKESWOMAN Jeanson has twice taken third overall.TWO COLOR PHOTOS: PHOTOGRAPHS BY JONATHAN S. MCELVERY FIFTY-MINUTE MAN In 2002 Danielson (inset) broke Hamilton's course record by nearly a minute in the first of his two straight wins.

"It's a wall," says one competitor. "Right from the gun, THE ROAD DISAPPEARS INTO THE TREES. It never really relents."

"Last year," Power says, "when the riders got to the five-mile mark, they were HITTING 50-TO 60-MPH WINDS, FOG AND DRIZZLE."